


Really Small Miracles

by MakeAStriderSmile



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: A literal one not a metaphorical one, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Multi, Nate is a god though, Prompt Fill, Wade is just himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 12:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16017989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MakeAStriderSmile/pseuds/MakeAStriderSmile
Summary: Inspired by a kinkmeme prompt because I've been in a writing rut and this inspired me big time:"Nate (the Dayspring) is the ancient, more than half forgotten god of time (or whatever). Wade is himself, and he stumbles (somehow) across some of Nate’s lore and starts “worshipping” him for shits and giggles. Leaving him offerings of cereal and leftover Chinese food, prayers that are really just wade conplainjng about his day and saying amen a lot.But FUCKING SURPRISE Nate is real, and very excited to have his first worshipper in a thousand years."Hope it's up to standards!





	Really Small Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, I haven't finished my Big Nasty Walmart AU. But I've since started up two (2) new jobs, and have gone through some pretty rough patches over the course of the past few months. But on a happenstance accidental clicking of my bookmarks, I stumbled back upon the kinkmeme and had to look for prompts, and this one jumped out at me.
> 
> (I haven't been on the Cablepool discord in forever and I hope everyone's doing well there!)
> 
> Either way, enjoy!

It starts as most things in Wade Wilson’s life do, especially since The Incident (he capitalizes it mentally because if he doesn't make some light out of losing her he'll never crawl out of his pit of despondency). It starts at 2:46am on a Wednesday night after a long mission gone right in the worst of ways, and Wade is watching Buzzfeed Unsolved raptly. 

 

“These guys really are just… blowin’ it right open…” He mumbles; slightly awed, bleary eyed and absently shoving a handful of rainbow popcorn into his mouth. 

 

And then it leads to Buzzfeed quizzes when the popcorn runs out, because really, he's got the mind of a sixteen year old Tumblr blogger (or a twenty year old writer) piloting his good sense and judgement right now, and 4:24am is really the best time for bullshit quizzes. 

 

‘Are you a Wet Man or a Dry Guy?’ Obviously a Wet Man. 

‘What Type of Yogurt Are You?’ Something fun and full of flavor. Some shit like… durian and lychee. Or mango and blood orange. Or anything besides plain unflavored yogurt, which is a sin against every deity to exist. 

‘Which Iconic Fall Food Matches Your Personality?’ Poutine, which is both a fall food and an all year round food. 

‘Which Obscure God Are You? 100% Accurate!’ Well, now. This one's pretty intriguing. 

 

It takes a few minutes of fumbling his way through the answers, and God, he really needs to invest in a mouse, he's practically demolished his trackpad. He expects Ishtar, or Tlazolteotl. Maybe even Cloacina. He is kind of a toilet of a person, so she'd fit. 

 

But what he sees is the splash art of a silver headed man with his head bowed in what could be supplication, or defeat, the art looking  _ quite  _ old, and jaunty golden letters that read “You are ‘The Dayspring’!”. 

 

Now, Wade likes to consider himself pretty cultured. He read a lot of old mythos books when he was in basic, and researching ancient mythology whenever he had leave kept his spare empty moments occupied. 

 

So when this fucking Buzzfeed quiz turns up the kind of obscure deity even  _ he  _ knows nothing about? He's intrigued. 

He looks at the user profile, ‘Golden_Cable’. No other quizzes. Interesting. 

 

And then he turns to Google, and Google is  _ much  _ more helpful. Some crotchety old white dudes apparently had a site detailing and listing the theology of a whole bunch of obscure gods. Looked like this guy was an old god of a long since dead civilisation that was, according to the research he did after he’d thoroughly scoured this site for details, scattered all across Europe, with factions even as far as the United States.

‘A god of unclear origins, though theologists suspect Greco-Roman or perhaps more likely, centralized somewhere in Europe, given the original locations of texts, sculptures and even artwork dating into Byzantine-era art styles and mediums, the Dayspring is a god of second chances. A god of time by any other name, but while he is known to have some hold over the domain of time, worshippers of the Dayspring were usually pantheistic commoners seeking redemption and second chances. He was known by his singular golden glowing eye, though records of the other eye have been lost due to defacing and destruction over time, and, by our standards, anachronistic, though for their times, one would suppose it was futuristic and awe-inspiring, his entirely metal-looking arm. All studies and artworks of the Dayspring show him with this, a left arm almost always plated with some kind of precious metal, though a lot of the artwork depicting him from the long lost Askani cultures of Europe has since been defaced and the metal removed.’

 

A god of second chances.

 

He could really use one of those.

 

\---

 

And so starts the worshipping, though he doesn’t call it that to begin with, hell, he doesn’t call it that for a very long while until fate decides to play into it.

 

He spray paints the end of his kitchen counter a shiny chrome-silver, neatens it up a little and starts leaving offerings on it. The dregs of a bowl of cereal, milky and sweet from the sugar he dumps into it. Half empty containers of Chinese he can’t continue to eat because it reminds him too much of her. Six lemon Skittles. A bottle of beer he’s too lazy to open. So on and so forth, he leaves the offerings there a few days and mumbles an ‘amen’ when he finally gets around to cleaning all of it off the end of the bench and then replacing it with new offerings. A paper plate with a perfect slice of pineapple and olive pizza. The mostly eaten half of a Subway sub loaded full of meat and cheese and absolutely no vegetables. Half a pie that Yukio had brought him with a cheery smile and a soft kiss to the scarred surface of his temple (He always bent down to hug her and she always did it. He suspected pity was at work, but sometimes, when depression wasn't kicking his ass, he thought that maybe she just cared about him). A piece of bread that he had found attached to his door with a knife, and scrawled into it with red Sharpie, ‘check ur snapchat wade wilson else im gonna bake u like i baked this bred’ signed with a little flame. He didn't know why Russell had settled on bread as an art medium but he figured the symbolism might work for this god dude.

 

And then there’s the praying. At 6:18am every morning without fail, Wade will speak into the low light of the approaching morning. “Y’see, Mr. Dayspring…” he will start, and always finish with, “...and thanks for listening. Amen.” It’s almost always just complaints about his day, grumbling about how the Taco Bell guy tried to compensate his shitty chalupa with a chimichanga on the house, when the Taco Bell guy  _ knew _ he didn’t eat them. Or when his target for the day had blown his foot off and he’d tripped on his face while the guy got away, and he'd spent the next day whining as his foot grew back. (The man ended up being hit by a minivan the day he got back to chasing him and Wade had smiled like the sun was coming up in his eyes. Maybe there was something to this god thing after all.)

 

But sometimes he would whisper into the air, “Sometimes I think you guys already decided my fate was to be alone. I don’t even know if I believe in… well, believing. But if there’s stock in my faith, maybe you could throw me a bone?” and pretend the heat on his scarred face and the welling in his eyes was just an allergy, an allergy to organized monotheism and everything they stood for, and he’d stop being sad, mumble an ‘amen’ and then go head to his laptop to make an angry post about ChristianMingle that he’d never actually send.

 

It’s a weird little existence he’s carved out for himself now, forcing himself to go on because he really doesn’t have any other options, leaving food and weird half-food half-messsges on the end of his kitchen counter.

 

But even weirder is when the milk starts showing up in the fridge.

 

\---

 

It’s a small glass jug, he concludes one morning, as he stares at the receptacle of milk that has seemingly arrived out of nowhere while he was sleeping. 

The jug was kind of ridiculously ornate, as if it were cut from crystal. And the milk? He takes a sip and almost moans. This is not ultra-pasteurized shit that he’d buy from the grocery store. Hell, this isn’t even the fancy shit he’d pay fifteen dollars for at the farmer’s market. 

This is the good shit, and he spends the next three days using it to make pancakes, and actually decent coffee, and the kind of cereal that made for  _ perfect  _ offerings to the Dayspring.

 

And the night he emptied it down to its near dregs and set it in the fridge for the night, he woke up to find it refilled. 

 

And then it refilled again. And again. 

 

It's nearly two months into his absent minded deifying of this dude he found in a Buzzfeed quiz, and he's starting to kind of question the magic milk. He looks into the fridge, expects the milk to be full. 

It is. And propped up against it is some kind of age-tinted scroll.

 

He unrolls it, because what the fuck, and reads the sprawling script, written flawlessly in a black ballpoint pen that is entirely at odds with the old timey scroll.

 

‘ _ I have heard your prayers, follower, and revel in your worship. I have found your offers pleasing, and saw it fit to offer you a tangible show of my favor. This jug will never truly empty, so long as you hold my attention, and I shall continue to favor you until as such time that you displease me. Use my gift well and take this offered chance.  _

 

_ Also, take some baking lessons, your pancakes were very floury. _

 

_ \--Dayspring, Son of Summer and Son of the Askani, Guardian of Time and Lord of Retribution. _ ’

 

He takes a moment to consider freaking out, he really does. Some wack job's clearly been snooping in his apartment and decided to play the god card as a joke. He would guess Weasel, Weas loved to form intricate plans he could operate from such a distance that he could claim innocence of the whole operation if questioned. 

 

Or maybe Russell, he'd been teaching the kid the basics in between his classes at the Virgin Mansion. 

 

But it was the milk. Where the hell would milk that good come from? Weasel would never spend unnecessary money on him, and Russ had very little money to spend in the first place unless he'd gone and returned to a life of crime. Which maybe explained the bread. 

 

He was starting to think, though, after the seventh refill, though this one and the one preceding it bore no note, that maybe there was a god. 

 

And that god was smiling down on  _ him _ . Resident Canadian fuckup Wade Wilson. Of all the people that had probably taken that quiz and looked him up, the Dayspring had saw fit to put milk in  _ his  _ fridge. 

 

He was kind of sure he was going to fuck this arrangement up royally, and this was a kind of lopsided thing, but he could play devoted worshipper. And he wasn't so sure that there was even any kind of insincerity behind it in the first place, because he was so fucking disproportionately pleased that someone needed him again. 

 

Russell had not commented on his altar before, and he called it one now, in his head, so it was definitely an  _ altar.  _ But he has reason to comment when he moves to pluck a grape from an offered bunch and he feels a sharp rap at his wrist, almost like a reprimand, warding him away. 

 

“Wade, there's a ghost haunting your grapes, man. I tried to eat one and he slapped my hand. What gives, I thought you said this place wasn't haunted.” He complains over their biweekly dinner that night, shoving half a roast potato into his mouth as Wade stares. 

 

He'd always wondered how the god ‘accepted’ the offerings when they still remained perfectly whole on his bench. Clearly there were shenanigans at work. So Wade just replies blithely, as if this is entirely normal, “Yeah, my god probably didn't want you touching his grapes. Just don't touch the stuff on the silver part and we're totally cool, all solid.”

 

This leads to Russell telling Ellie, who tells Yukio, who tells Piotr, who tells Neena, and now he has a gaggle of little ducklings huddled around his altar, staring at him like he's insane.

 

“This is worrying, Wade. Is not god that prevents touch, is  _ you _ . You need intervention, my friend, and so we are here.” Piotr murmurs kindly, remaining the furthest from the altar. He's not a pious man, but he does have a healthy respect for differing thoughts and opinions. Even if his own opinion was that this poor, sick man had dragged Russell into his odd behavior as of late. 

 

“I need an intervention because some dude puts milk in my refrigerator? Colossus,  _ you've  _ put milk in my fridge before and I definitely don't consider you a god. Maybe some kinda fancy metal messiah. Or a guy who took his piercing fetish too far. This dude just does it with magic and also has some kinda spiritual link to the end of my kitchen counter so he can eat my leftovers. No biggie.” Comes a sharp retort from Wade, who has had to smack Ellie's hand away three times from trying to touch the Skittles he had set down in offering. 

 

Finally he sighs, throws his hands up and turns to her. “Fine! Go ahead and try eat one! But if he whacks ya, I'm not gonna stop him.”

 

She raises an unimpressed brow, recently pierced, and slowly reaches out to touch. This time he doesn't stop her. But the moment her fingers touch a Skittle, this one orange, she feels the cool tapping of metal against her wrist, and then hard metal fingers curling around that wrist and tugging it back out of the way of the food. 

 

Wade watches with a small smile. “S’kinda wild, huh? Told you not to touch.”

 

Yukio leans into her girlfriend and whispers, confused, “Your hand was all… glowy. It was gold, for a second.”

 

And Ellie leans back, that same hand catching Yukio’s, still warm and tingling, mumbling back, “Pretty sure he's the real deal. Wade somehow conned a  _ god _ into liking him.”

 

There comes no protest from Wade, because he's not entirely sure that that  _ isn't  _ what happened. 

 

Neena, who had said nothing up until this point, just says with a small smile, “Soooooo, tell me more about your god boyfriend. You cooking him nice things? What's his deal?”

 

And Wade isn't entirely sure how to respond to that, so he just  simply starts babbling at length about the god and his unclear etymology, and the long lost Askani people, and everyone except Piotr has tuned him out now, but he seems to have a smile on his face as he talks, on and on, until suddenly Piotr speaks.

 

“I have not seen you so happy since Vane--” He starts, only for Wade to go eerily quiet, and the room seems to dim almost, with the feeling of Wade's displeasure. 

 

It was an unspoken rule that they didn't mention her to Wade. To mention it would be to start a spiral downwards until they were picking his slow healing body off a pavement from where it dropped forty storeys. 

And today seemed to be no exception, the joy leaving Wade's eyes as he thinks to himself, slightly hysterical, ‘ _ He's right. I'm acting as if everything's hunky dory and I deserve to have some kind of…. brohood with a  _ **_god_ ** _ , when I should be fucking repenting or something, making up for the shit I did, what I let happen to her… _ ’ 

 

And as if lightning had struck, centred entirely in his apartment, there's a blinding flash of blue and a no-nonsense voice ordering them, calm but quiet, “Out we go now, sharing time's over, c’mon, out, out, out.”

 

And they're all pushed by hands they can't see, nudged gently but very emphatically out the door. 

 

And, standing there, they could all say they had been escorted politely from their friend’s premises by a god. 

 

Wade hardly even notices, eyes closed against the intense light, swaying back with a groan as he mumbles incomprehensibly into the air, the tone turning despondent as the words harshen, form coherency, a whimpering litany of, ‘ _ I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry _ ’ that becomes muffled against a robe covered chest as he’s tugged down close.

 

The Dayspring holds him, holds him and murmurs into the top of his head, lips brushing scar tissue tenderly, “You’ve already been forgiven, my scarred disciple. She waits, patient and ever growing in her power. You will be reunited with her as surely as the sun rises, and by that point, she will topple  _ cities _ with her strength.”

 

And Wade laughs wetly, rubs his tear damp face all over his perfectly lovely robes, a pearly gray to match the streaks of his hair, and replies dryly, “That sounds like my Ness. She coulda toppled cities even before I… before she..” and he trails off, unable to say it. 

 

“Before she died,” the man replies helpfully in turn, though not unkindly as he strokes Wade’s back. “She died, Wade. I hold court over time itself and that moment was fleeting for some, and eternity for you. She died, and yet you visit her still. Do you make your offerings to her as you do to me?”

 

Wade still hadn’t lifted his face from the robes he’d been carefully tucked against, but he lifts his head now, regards the face of the man he’d been praying to for the past few months. He’s surprised to see how unlike the artworks he was.

 

His best initial descriptors were ‘short gruff dad bod’. The second pass, he notes that he’s scruffy by design. Careful dusting of stubble, an artful tousle to his undercut and grey streaked brunette hair. One eye a soft hazel, the other glowing a pulsing orange. It was so weird to look upon a god’s face and realize you’re  _ taller _ than him.

 

“I don’t offer anything to her, mostly just think about her a whole fucking lot. Does that count?” He finally manages to spit out after he’s given Dayspring a thorough looking over, once and then again.

 

The silvered god raises a salt and pepper brow at Wade’s very thorough perusal before replying, “Belief gives me and mine a lot of strength. Perhaps it works for her too. I don’t really look into her business, though, I’ve been much more concerned with you.”

 

“You've been  _ concerned _ ? Christ, you mustn't live a very busy godly existence if you're wasting your time on one lousy semi-follower.” Wade snorts, shaking his head ruefully, as if this news disappoints him. 

 

“Wade Wilson, you are my only follower. You are the first I've had in…. well, definitely since a couple of centuries before you were born. I have literally nothing else to do with my time. You are my concern, and my priority.” 

 

The Dayspring says this as if it is a common thing to say, as if a god devoting himself to maintaining  _ Wade's  _ wellbeing was a normal thing that people totally did. 

 

He gapes a little at him. Almost asks if he's kidding. But he gets the feeling this is the kinda guy that's painfully earnest too often of the time. 

 

“Dude, I found you on a  _ Buzzfeed quiz _ . You should have a fuckton of impressionable teenage followers devoting their firstborns to you.” He stammers out, entirely disbelieving. He couldn't seriously be the  _ only _ follower of this surprisingly hot god dude. 

 

“Buzz… feed. You mean like those videos you watch blankly at 2 in the morning? Why would that make teenagers worship me?” The god is, Wade supposes, unsurprisingly confused. Yeah, Buzzfeed Unsolved sure was a weird series for their usual target audience. But… 

 

“There's these quizzes, they're usually inane as fuck, but I found a quiz about obscure gods. And so I took it, cause I'm mytho-minded, well, since I spent a fuckdiculous amount of hours reading up on gods and shit, though some of the stuff they got up to was kinda more ridiculous than anything I ever got up to while I was on tour, no offence, and I got you! And I'd never heard of you so I looked you up. I found out you were a god of second chances, realized, yeah, uh, I kinda needed a lot of those, or even just the one shot at something I fucked up. Well. Less fucked up and more catastrophically and single-mindedly destroyed every chance I had ever had at ever being happy again. And so I kinda just…. started doing it.”

 

And he's on the path to rambling now, about how he'd started the offerings for the hell of it, and the praying as a way to vent, and how all of it should hardly be taken seriously and all the reasons why he shouldn't even be in this apartment consoling him after his mini panic attack. 

 

But The Dayspring cuts him off neatly by saying, “You deserve that second chance and more. There's only so much I can do, but for my only follower, I'll pull a few strings,” and then he grins, rakish and charming, even goes so far as to wink, and Wade can see why civilisations toppled and rose by the smiles and tears of the gods. 

 

He then blurts out, entirely without meaning to, “Look, if we're gonna do this thing, I need something normal to call you. I was cool to keep callin’ you by your fancy name, but now you're here in my shitty apartment smilin’ at me like I'm actually fucking worth anything and I feel rude not knowing your name.”

 

The god does not look frustrated or smite-y at this query. In fact, he looks a little embarrassed. 

“I am known by many names, Wade Wilson. The name you have prayed to me with is actually the newest of all of them.” And then he starts rattling off an  _ exhaustive  _ list of names, and Wade is staring after the fourth name, gaping after the seventh, and frustrated by the tenth. 

 

“...Summer's Son, Askani’son, Lord Graymalkin, Guardian of Time, Providence, The Gray Cat, The Redeemer, Nathan Goldeneyed, Brot--” And he is suddenly cut off by Wade's voice, blissful and exasperated in equal measures. 

 

“Ding ding fuckin’ ding, Nate it is! Jesus, did you just move around a lot and pick up new followers that called you different stuff or have you just  _ always _ had that laundry list of ridiculous titles?”

 

The newly coined ‘Nate’ just cocks his head at him like he's a particularly fascinating science project, some sort of ant colony in a tank and he's a second away from tapping at the glass and disrupting their whole shit. 

 

“It's the way of the gods to keep moving. If you can't spread your influence into the world then the faith is lost, and if the faith is lost, we don't have much more of a reason to go on. I'd spent… well, for me it was maybe a week, for you, some handful of centuries, I'd spent it alone in my realm. I'm certain that, had I been alone for very much longer, I would have faded out into nothingness, like the elder gods of,” and he sounds a name out that sounds absolutely nothing like words, or any kind of anything. 

 

“Yeah, so y’lost me on that one. But I get the point, long time in solitude until you got dragged out by my dumb ass. And so now you're stuck keeping an eye on me like the most long-suffering guardian angel ever?” Wade asks, summarizing Nate’s long-winded explaining into an only slightly self-deprecating couple of sentences.

 

“I can rescind my favor whenever I like, Wade Wilson. I just choose not to. You are my disciple in these modern times, a symbol for my message.” Nathan says kindly, and Wade suddenly realizes with a bit of a start that he’s been unconsciously curling himself close, still in Nate’s arms, drawn inexorably in by the warmth of his voice and the weird warmth of his  _ arm _ , which, damn, had to be some kinda cool godsthetic (god aesthetic or god prosthetic, either suits and both make him sound super awesome for thinking of it).

 

He scoots back a little, and Nate realizes he is silently asking to be released. He complies. Wade finds himself shuffling his feet, and he looks a little embarrassed as he admits, “I’m kind of not the positive symbol for good and change and second chances that a god should be impressed by. I’m a mercenary. I’m a shitty guy that kills the shittier guys. I wear a suit to cover everything the Weapon X program made me into. And I like to do it, too. I  _ like _ hurting those people.”

 

“I never claimed to be a pacifist. How else would I have gotten this?” A vague gesture with the metal arm. “You’re exactly the disciple I need. A military man, one made into something  _ more _ . You take what you know and use it to punish those that commit vile deeds. You wear the vestiges of battle, just as I once did in service to the Askani. And you take pleasure in making the wrongdoers of this corrupted world pay for their sins. Wade Wilson, I could not have possibly asked for anybody better suited to my service. And I intend to help you where I can, as best as I can.”   
  
“I…. I hope you know you can back out whenever, that I can totally go tell Neens to convert from whatever nonsense luck shit she’s got going on to get all up on your retribution train.” The scarred man mumbles after nearly half a minute of gaping at Nathan.

 

“I am aware.” Nathan replies, serene and smiling. “Is this you finally putting yourself into my service properly?”

 

Wade almost says no, almost says that Nathan should go find someone else. His mouth has other plans. “Yeah, pretty sure it is.”

 

“Then I’ll need you to kneel for a moment.”

 

“Damn, Nate, shoulda known you’d want me down on my knees at some point, I hear the Christians are all about getting the fellas on their knees for their lord.” He jokes, even as he complies, careful as he thumps down to his knees, sitting back on his heels and peering up at the god.

 

“I pay little mind to the thoughts and prayers of monotheistic culture. Head down a moment.” A nudge to the top of his head, though neither of Nate’s hands move.

 

He drops his gaze to the floor and watches Nate’s feet, which, for some reason are clad in rather modern looking combat boots, approach. He feels a warm palm rest atop his head, and this one actually feels real. “Jeez, can all gods do the telekinesis thing? Makes a lot of the stories a lot more rape-y in context, if they can.”

 

“Not all of them, pretty sure this one’s just a me thing. Quiet down now, though. This part is important.” The hand on his head warms further, and the voice that seems to ring  _ through _ the apartment despite still sounding exactly the same finally proclaims, “Wade Winston Wilson, born of Canada, son of Thomas and Hailey, you are now a disciple of my ideals. As long as you maintain your worship and uphold the values I stand for, you shall be my chosen and my beloved, and will be cared for as such. Do you accept my terms?”

 

The many, many questions Wade had about how Nate knew so much about him (as well as the whole  _ beloved _ thing, because what the fuck) could wait. Sounded like this was important god shit. “I accept your terms.”

 

And suddenly he could feel something, warm and comfortable, settle over his skin like a cloak, or some kind of latex bodysuit that didn’t seem to chafe or squeak weirdly (despite having spent hours talc-ing up to get into it comfortably). And the hand on his head moves to his chin, coaxing him back to standing.

 

“All done.” Nate concludes with that same grin. 

 

“All done? What’s all done? Also how do you know where I’m from? And how do you know my parents? How did you even know my dad’s name?” As someone who had  _ not  _ known his dad’s name before this moment, this threw Wade for a little bit of a loop. 

 

“Godly omnipotence.” 

 

“Sounds about right. Gonna tell me what the whole ‘beloved of a god’ thing means?”

 

“Just means you’ll get a bit of a boost. I’ll stop you from getting so riddled with bullets, you help me out from time to time. I’ll give you some directions, and I’d prefer you followed them kind of closely. And besides that, you should feel a little better, just in general. Gave you a handy dandy cure-some. Not a cure all, I wouldn’t go around taking away all the aches and pains and scars. Just enough that the pain shouldn’t keep you awake. You’ve mentioned it sometimes does that.”   
Nate gestures at him. “Go on, twist and move around a little. It shouldn’t hurt.”

 

And Wade does. Bends, stretches, squats. And he feels the tightness of scarred skin and muscle, but not the pain. Not the pain that had kept him up in the middle of the night, teary eyed and whispering to a god he had only slightly believed in. Just a bit of an ache.

 

And Wade almost bursts into tears. He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing.

 

“So… just gotta do you some favors, huh? Favors of the shooty kind or favors of the blow you against my kitchen counter kind? Or both? Please let it be both.” He manages, forcing his slack jaw and wide eyes and overactive tear ducts into something resembling a face that once held even an iota of charm.

 

“It can be both. But I’m not currently looking for favors of either kind. In fact, I should really get going before my presence on this mortal plane tips any kind of surveillance off or something. I’ve heard your people like to put gods into their eternal service.” Regardless of his stance upon the Avengers, Nate looks amused. A little more than amused, he looks  _ intrigued  _ by Wade’s offer.

 

“We only bring him out for special occasions,” he agrees, “and only when gorgeous lesbian icons are gonna be around to make him look less cool than he probably is. It’s cool if you gotta go, just don’t leave me all on my lonesome forever, a man could get used to that salt and pepper visage. Drop in sometime. Check in on my, uh. Godly service, hah.”

 

Nate snorts, hands on his hips as he drops his head and laughs ruefully to himself. “Yeah.” He consents with an adoring softness in his eyes that Wade cannot possibly believe is devoted to him. “Yeah, I’ll be back real soon, Wade Wilson. Don’t you worry about that. I get the feeling we’re really gonna need each other soon enough.”

 

And with that weirdly cryptic proclamation and a shimmering golden wash that fills the room with light, Wade is alone, weirdly aroused, and the newly made servant of an obscure European god with a dad bod, a fancy metal arm and some kind of weird infatuation with him.

 

Wade Wilson walks calmly to his bedroom, opens his laptop and begins drafting a long and sincere thank you letter to Buzzfeed for finding him possibly the best sugar daddy in the known galaxy.

**Author's Note:**

> So I kinda fudged the ending, I was getting a bit purple prose-y for my own liking and just wanted to have it in a publishable state. 
> 
> There's potential for more, a lot of potential, but I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to bring myself to write it! I've been writing this in chunks and snippets on my bus rides to work and my rides home, and as much as I've loved writing it, it's been a bit of a drain on this dumb gay's brain.  
> If I get some more ideas, sure, hell, I'll make this a series! But if not, well, I guess we'll see.
> 
> If ever you need to get in touch with me, my tumblr is lupdeservesbetter! From there, if you ever need to PM me, I can usually be found there or on Discord (IM me on Tumblr if you're looking for that.)  
> Have a lovely day/evening, and I guess I'll see you in the next one!!


End file.
